


A moment's calm in a far away thunder

by RedWritingHood



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Come on, Cuddling, Feels bad man, Gen, Good Brother Klaus Hargreeves, Good Brother Luther Hargreeves, Hurt/Comfort, Klaus is a good bro, Touch-Starved, almost nothing from the first episode is applicable here, because I say so, ben is good too but he's invisible, but we knew that, luther is just really tired, luther was alone on the moon for four years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 08:20:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20386609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedWritingHood/pseuds/RedWritingHood
Summary: A month back on Earth and two weeks before he returns to the mansion, Luther dreams that he kills Klaus.Or: Luther dreams that he hurts his siblings. He stops sleeping.





	A moment's calm in a far away thunder

**Author's Note:**

> I just really like the idea of Luther as a good brother. Like. That's the only way I'm ever gonna write him, ever. 
> 
> Title is from "Not A Man of Violence" by Nihils. I know, the irony.

A month back on Earth and two weeks before he returns to the mansion, Luther dreams that he kills Klaus.

He sees his brother stop breathing on the floor of some awful club, the lights bright and neon, the music deafening, blanketing the sound of Klaus dying.

When Luther wakes up, he lays there for a long time, just staring up at the ceiling. His breathing is shallow and he's shaking slightly. He doesn't go back to sleep.

The next night, he dreams of holding Vanya in his arms and slowly crushing her as she whispers, "_You're hurting me."_

He doesn't sleep after that, either.

The next night, it's Klaus again, struggling under the pressure of one of Luther's large hands. The phantom impression of Klaus's neck under his fingers lasts for an hour afterwards.

And the dreams keep coming. They keep happening, and Luther can't sleep, he can't ever _sleep_.

When he finally gets to the mansion, he's so tired that he's stopped caring about the not-quite imperceptible trembling throughout his body. He knocked over both the salt and the sugar that morning and dropped the shampoo three times while showering.

He wants, more than anything, to just lay down in his bed and rest. But every time he closes his eyes, he sees his siblings being hurt. By _him_.

He hates it. _God_, does he hate it.

But despite his exhaustion, when he hears someone in his father's study, he clenches his hands to stop the shaking, straightens his shoulders, and opens the door.

It's Klaus.

(Of course it is.)

He almost looks the way that Luther feels, except more manic, less looming, and with makeup on.

Luther thinks, dimly, _He's alive_. And then, with an irrational flood of relief: _Thank God he's alive_.

Luther feels something loosen in him, feels his shoulders slump just a little. Feels his hands unclench and rise slightly, as if to reach out. Just to make sure.

His eyes are burning and he can't tell if it's from a lack of sleep or-- something else.

"Luther," Klaus says, caught. Nervous energy crackles around him, and he takes a step back from their father's desk. He discreetly--or at least, kind of discreetly--closes one of the drawers. He lets out an uneasy laugh. "Fancy seeing you here, brother dear."

Luther finally finds his tongue. "Klaus," he says, clearing his throat. He drops his gaze, flexing his fingers. He wants to check to see if Klaus is unhurt, but he's suddenly afraid that he won't be once Luther touches him.

(Because Luther touches him)

He settles on saying, "What are you doing here?"

Immediately, he nearly winces. The words come out loud and clumsy, the opposite of what Luther wants to be. The opposite of what he's trying to be.

_I have to do this right_, he thinks. _I have to do everything right_.

He can't afford to make a mistake. Can't afford to fail. He can't afford to be-- he can't afford to be _Luther_.

_But who else can I be?_

He feels almost scared by the thought. The idea that there's nothing he can do, that he's destined to ruin everything.

That he's already ruining everything.

"That's a funny story, actually," Klaus says, casually. Luther notices that he's lingering, keeping the desk between them. Like Luther's going to be on him the moment it's out of the way.

He feels nauseous all of a sudden.

"Is it?" He chokes out, and then has to grab the doorway to keep from losing his balance. The wood makes an alarming creaking sound under his fingers.

It's hard to catch his breath, like there's not enough oxygen in the room. There's a tightness in his chest, in his throat. His body is too big and his ribcage is too weak, his lungs are too small.

He might be dying.

Out of nowhere, something brushes against his arm.

"Whoa," Klaus says. His hand is hovering above Luther's shoulder, like he'd been ready to try and catch him if he fell. "Been neglecting your blood sugar? I've got, like, three chocolate bars in my left pocket alone."

"Oh," is all that Luther manages. He's staring down at Klaus's hand. His brother notices, and snatches it back, then pretends like nothing ever happened.

Luther swallows. He still remembers the feeling of his brother scrabbling against the hand closed tightly, unyieldingly, around his neck.

Luther's hand.

_Just a dream_, he thinks, and shuts his eyes against another rush of queasiness.

He opens them again when he feels a palm press itself to his forehead. It's warm, and soft. And gentle. Without thinking, he presses back into it.

He's suddenly aware that it's been four long years since anyone has touched him. He's suddenly aware that he can't even remotely handle it like he should be able to.

"Uh, you alright there, bro?" He hears Klaus ask. "Doesn't feel like you've got a fever. Still a little warm, though." He makes to remove his hand, and Luther opens his mouth to say "I'm fine", but he ends up choking out an almost unintelligible "_Klaus_" instead.

His brother freezes. Luther is shaking all over again. He's exhausted. He's exhausted, and he can't stop thinking about the way that the neon lights glinted off of Klaus's blood, and he just-- he can't take it.

"Oh, jeez," Klaus says. "Oh, Jesus Christ, what are-- are you crying? Is he crying?"

"I'm-- I'm really tired, Klaus," Luther says, wetly.

"Okay, okay, easy fix, right?" Klaus babbles. He grabs Luther's arm and steers him out of the room. "Let's just get you all tucked in, with a nice little bedtime story, just like Mom used to do when we were kids. You can close your eyes, I can do voices and sound effects, it'll be great."

"I don't need a story," Luther mumbles as Klaus guides him down the hall.

"But a tuck-in is still on the table, huh?" Klaus laughs nervously, his gaze darting to some unseen form for a brief moment. "Fine by me, we'll do the story another time."

When they reach Luther's room, Klaus shoves him in and wrestles him out of his coat until he's left in his turtleneck. The coat is then tossed onto the floor without a second glance.

_Someone needs to hang that up_, Luther thinks, insensibly.

Klaus urges him to lay down and covers him with the blanket, actually tucking him in. Afterwards, he stand back and admires his handiwork.

"Klaus," Luther says. He shoves the blanket off of him and sits up. His face is wet and he can't remember why. "I can't sleep."

Klaus frowns. He grabs the blanket again and uses the edges to rub at Luther's face, despite his brother trying to ineffectively bat him away. "What? It's easy. Just, you know, lie back down and close your eyes. Or keep your eyes open, whatever floats your weird, creepy boat."

"I'll just wake up again in an hour," Luther says tiredly. He finally manages to pull the blanket from Klaus's hand. "The most sleep I've gotten in the last two weeks is four hours, and that was five days ago."

"Oh," Klaus says. "Well, why didn't you just say so?"

With that, he kicks off his shoes and climbs into the bed next to Luther. "Ta-dah! Human dream catcher. I always have a solution, it's just that no one ever listens to me." He glances quickly at something that isn't there and scoffs. "I didn't say it had to be a _good_ solution."

"Klaus," Luther says.

Klaus curls his hands into his chest, lays his head down on Luther's shoulder, and bats his eyelashes up at him. "Yes, brother dear?"

"This isn't going to work."

Klaus tsks. "This is why you need to leave the ideas up to me, teddy bear. Anyway, if it doesn't work, there's always alcohol."

Luther stares up at the ceiling, hands folded over his stomach. Klaus's weight presses into his side, and the comfort of it is... surprising.

He shuts his eyes and whispers, "You always have the worst ideas."

Klaus's hand snakes out to pat his chest. "Not true, _mon frere_. They usually work out for me." He leaves his hand there, over Luther's heart.

A few stray tears slip down into his pillow, and he feels Klaus brush warm fingers over his cheek. He's vaguely aware of the encroaching darkness.

As Luther falls asleep, he hears Klaus say, distantly, "That was one time-- okay, two times. Three... Alright, alright, you can shut up now, I'm trying to sleep. No respect, I swear..."

And there, on the edges of his consciousness, he could almost hear a voice replying.

The sound of it shudders through him, familiar as his own. He turns his head towards the voice and sighs out, "_Ben_."

And then... he doesn't hear anything at all.


End file.
